


Not Kosher

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blow Jobs, Finger Sucking, First Time, Foreskin Play, Hand Jobs, Horny Teenagers, Humanstuck, Jewish Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3655821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Putting it in your <em>mouth</em> ith kosher but God forbid if you touch a forethkin, that’th definitely where God drawth the line. You moron.”</p><p>Karkat Is Too Jewish For This: The Motion Picture: The Fanfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Kosher

**Author's Note:**

  * For [muchlessvermillion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/muchlessvermillion/gifts).



Sometimes you think you have the best luck in the world. Like, what god died and made you king of the world, with your best friend as your boyfriend and kissing you in the middle of the afternoon? Karkat’s lips are full and soft; sometimes his teeth snag across your lower lip, but he always grunts out “sorry” before he soothes it over with his tongue, and that might be hotter than if he’d never made the mistake in the first place. When he pulls back, the light coming through your busted blinds lights his face up gold, olive skin radiant, unruly black hair a halo around his head, red eyes a firebrand.

And then he’s nosing over your shirt, voluntarily falling out of your lap so he can get on his knees on the floor and hug you around the waist and press his cute crooked nose to the inseam of your skinny jeans, and your teenage dick jumps a little. Your boyfriend. Karkat. Wants to. To touch. The dick. Okay. This is a thing. That is happening. If you were religious, you’d send up a prayer in thanks. As it is, you run a shaky hand through Karkat’s hair, and he hums a little, quiet enough that it sounds like a smile that he’s tucked into your thigh.

“I,” Karkat says, rubbing the side of his face against your leg.

He’s a fucking kitten. “KK,” you prod him.

“I kind of want to. Um.” His face is doing a great approximation of a tomato. “Try a thing. Where I suck your dick.”

“Jeethuth,” you whisper. Karkat makes a face—you’re not sure whether it was at the epithet or at your lisp. “You really don’t have to, I mean, I’m dithguthting—”

Karkat brains you in the hip with his forehead. “Don’t,” he tells you, trying to stem the self-doubt. “You’re not—I mean, you’re—just don’t.” He plants a hand carefully on your knee. Heat seeps through the denim. Contact prickles ever gradually northward, until his palm cradles your other bony hip. Thumbprint sneaks under your shirt, rubs a little circle into bare skin. He noses up the other side and presses his lips soft wet gentle hesitant against your nonexistent Adonis line. “I want to,” he says into the hollow of your stomach. “We don’t have to, if. If you don’t want to. But I think you’ll—I want you to like it.”

You close your hand over the hand he has on your hip. Slowly you push it to center, then push your hips into the contact. Your dick is two layers of fabric away from getting a full on wiener touch. Your first ever wiener touch from someone who is not you and who is also your best everything and your heart is only a little bit in your throat and you are not even nervous not even a little bit _god_. “You don’t have to put your mouth on it,” you mumble. Because, well. Just because it’s the first time he’s going to see your naked penis doesn’t mean he automatically has to slobber all over it.

Karkat, miraculously, doesn’t say anything. He tries to undo the button with one hand, but nothing gives. Two hands, the second trembling as much as the first, and the sound of the zipper is obnoxiously loud in the quiet that’s gathered. “Okay,” Karkat says. “Okay. I’m going to get in your pants now.”

“Thankth, Captain Obviouth.”

A scowl gathers like stormclouds on his face, denting the furrow between his eyebrows. “Wow, you can be such a shitheel sometimes.” To get you back, he bunches your boxers and your jeans all at once, pulls down so hard you think you might chafe from denim against your ass, and then okay wow so your dick is just sort of. Sticking out there? Mostly hard and the head of it all swelled up and the shaft at a weird diagonal to the rest of you.

Karkat’s staring at it like it’s going to bite him. Like he’s never seen one before, even though he has one himself—like he’s never seen one from this angle, even though you’ve been through his search history. (You know the kind of porn he likes and you still love him. That’s gotta say something.) “Sollux, um.”

“Are you sure thith ith kosher?” Yes, Captor. Get nervous and babble. _Brilliant plan._ “’Cauthe if it’th not, you can at leatht jack me off or thomething, right?”

He’s still eyeing it warily. Then a hand comes up, index out, other fingers curled in, and he—prods. Just below the tip. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’th a dick.”

“No, _this_ ,” and he prods again, pulling down just enough that his fingertip slips past your frenum and your dick twitches against his touch.

“That?” What the hell. He had sex ed last year just like you. Was he not paying attention? “That’th my forethkin.”

“That’s your—what?”

You pull your tongue back from your teeth and try to enunciate this time. “Fore _s_ kin.”

“Ew, fuck.” And yet he doesn’t stop touching it. Teasing it, really, running his fingertip in circles just where it’s still barely curling around the head of your cock, pushing down a little. “This isn’t fucking—this cannot possibly be kosher.”

“Pleathe do not go full-blown rant volcano on me,” you groan, letting your head fall back and your eyes fall closed.

Too late. “Why. Why would you not be circumcised. I don’t get it. Does your dad think it’s _cute_ to have a fucking dick turtleneck wrapped around a woody? Did he think all the ladies and dudes would be lining up around the block to touch this little bit of sloppy stuff that you could just nip off?”

“KK,” comes out a little strangled. “If you could _not_ , that’th _really fucking thenthitive_ —”

And he keeps doing it. Probably with more intention this time, because now it’s a few fingertips, not just one. Just kind of. Rolling it. Back and forth. These light little teasing touches that have you taking your breaths between gritted teeth, because you will not let him know how much this is getting to you. God it’s adorable how he’s treating you so tenderly. Like he could rip it off on accident or something. “I’m pretty sure this has crossed the line of whether this is kosher or not.”

“Putting it in your _mouth_ ith kosher but God forbid if you touch a forethkin, that’th definitely where God drawth the line. You moron.”

Karkat glares at you so hard that your dick actually wilts a little in sympathy. Of course, it pings right back up as Karkat keeps teasing the head of it, slow easy slide of skin against skin helped along by a little bead of moisture poking out the slit. “I’m too fucking Jewish for this,” he grumbles, still looking straight in your eyes. “We have already had this fucking argument. Unicorns are fucking kosher and my dad backs me up on this, the only thing that would make this _not_ kosher is if this was served with goddamn _dairy_ or something—”

“Deliciouth man-yogurt ithn’t dairy?”

You’re just about to laugh at your own joke when Karkat physically brings the hand not touching your dick up to your face and claps it over your mouth. “Stop fucking talking. And no, because I can tell what you’re thinking, you abhorrent taintpimple, _I am not asking my dad whether licking a foreskin is kosher._ ”

Yeah, you’re laughing. You’re laughing your ass off. Figuratively, but Karkat can probably tell you’re trying to rut your hips into his slight touch. “Shit,” comes out muffled, “KK, I’m thorry, the G-thing wath jutht to make you mad and I guethh it worked but if you don’t touch my cock like you mean it in the necktht thirthy thecondth I am pulling up my pantth and walking away.”

“You’re impossible.” Karkat rolls his eyes. One of his fingers slips into your mouth, presses down on your tongue, okay, that’s. And then his hand on your— _yeah_ , that’s. Your brain melts and starts pouring down your spinal column, pooling somewhere in your gut and making you feel heavy with anticipation. The hand closed around your shaft pulls off slow and smooth, the calluses on his palm rasping against soft skin that never sees the light of day.

And then he switches his hands, your drool on his fingers lubing his tugs, a wet thumbprint smearing across your bottom lip. Your hands clench. One of them was in Karkat’s hair. Oops. “Thorry.”

Apparently you shouldn’t be, because the noise he makes, breathy and a little high-pitched, a contented and strained _hhhhhhhhh_ , says more than actual words ever could. “I’m. Okay. Okay. I’m actually going to do this. I’m not going to wuss out.”

He’s going to—

He’s—

His tongue, soft wet squishmuscle, cups the ridge along the underside and you could swear your skin was throwing off sparks at how good it feels. “Fuck,” comes out with more meaning than you intended.

Karkat quirks a thick brow at you. “Okay?”

“Fantathtic, KK, that— _oh_ ,” kosher or not that skin’s under his tongue and he’s swirling the point of it under the overlap and right against the most sensitive goddamn part oh god. Oh god oh god oh god you don’t mean to blaspheme in front of him and he knows you’re about to do it so he sticks his thumb in your mouth, his thumb bitter from your pre and you suck and he makes this desperate fluting noise that’s going to be echoing around in your skull for the rest of eternity probably.

Then his lips, those thick, plush, pliant lips mouth at the tip sloppily, not quite getting a hold of it until finally they slip—down—close around the part of you he was most trepidatious about, and he purses his mouth, draws lips tight over teeth, and _bobs_. Your heart dissolves and falls into the coil of molten heat curling somewhere between your stomach and the buzzing base of your spine.

Once, twice, and he pulls off again. He’s making a face, an expression that clearly says _I have the taste of dick somewhere under my tongue and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to wash it out_. You spit his finger out of your mouth in a panic. “What?” You’re gross. You’re disgusting and filthy and this experiment isn’t going to turn out well after all he’s totally put off and he’s never going to want to try it again—

He butts his head against his shoulder; his jaw cracks, and he moves his lower mandible in a circle. “Teeth,” he tries to explain, then, “You have to hold your mouth like you’re a snake trying to devour a fucking automobile.”

And then he’s right back on you, taking you into his mouth in increments, the head of your dick sliding against the texture of his hard palate. You never thought you’d notice things like that. Yes, there’s hotwetclingsilk, but there’s also his tongue deliberately nudging against your frenum from inside his mouth, his lips purposefully closed around your foreskin and pushing it up and down and up again, the languorous pace that has your blood thrumming in your ears. “KK,” comes out gentler than you meant, and you run your hands through his hair until you reach the nape of his neck, scratch there gently, before you go to do it again.

That little _hhhhhh_ noise is now strangled around your cock and it feels amazing. Karkat’s hand claws down your chest, vicious even through your t-shirt. Slight prickle of nails against Karkat’s scalp and this time he purses his lips and hollows his cheeks and _sucks_ , actually _sucking your dick_. Your boyfriend, best friend, only everything, is sucking your dick. A gentle sort of pull, an urge to fill the empty space in him with all you can give, and your muscles feel like they’re strung on too tight, you’re going to snap—

A cold, weird-feeling dribble of spit falls out of Karkat’s mouth. It’d be gross if it didn’t feel so good. And Karkat looks up at you—eyes too wide, he looks too honest entirely, searching your face for approval with your dick in his mouth and his tongue doing _things_ to you. A surge runs down your spine and liquefies your bones; they join the sludge that’s left of you, churning in your gut and searing white when Karkat licks along the tip.

He brings up his hands. One seems like it’s just to steady you, but now there’s constant heatpressure along your entire cock and movement in counterpoint. The other hand—back at your hip, gripping like he’s afraid you’re going to dissolve into air and with what he’s doing he might be _right_ , pressing urgent fingertip bruises into you and making you feel like he’s trying to crush your bones into powder just so he can cry into the ashes.

Karkat is destroying you. This boy will be your doom, you’re sure of it, and it pulls at you and you can feel it on the horizon, “off, get off, KK, I, oh _fuck_ , too good—”

His mouth and his hand trade off, mouth laying open-mouthed sloppy kisses along your shaft and fist jacking off the rest, almost too gentle but just on this edge of unbearable and overbearing because he’s got your foreskin cupped in the heel of his hand. “Come,” Karkat mumbles against your skin, his mouth full, “come on, _come_ —”

It hits you going Mach 5 in enemy airspace, blitzing all along your nerves and leaving you a wreck. And you drag Karkat down with you, pulling his hair, leaving everything you have in the cup of his hand.

With your remaining brain cell, you think idly that you’re glad it didn’t happen in his mouth.

He looks devastated enough as it is. When he pulls away and gently pries your hand out of his hair, his mouth is red and swollen and glossy, patches of color high on his cheeks; he looks like he just got _fucked_ , dear lord have mercy on your soul, and you wish he’d look this vaguely contented-frustrated all the time. It’s a good look on him.

Then he has to go and open that beautiful mouth of his. His words are undoing all the hard work his lips are doing. “Still kosher.”

Because he didn’t swallow. “You’re an athhole.”

He reaches for your nightstand—tissues, to clean his hand. To reach, he leans on you, and he puts more pressure on your knee than is entirely necessary. “Nice of you to return the favor, too.” His sarcasm could corrode titanium.

“I.” How many brain cells did he leave you? Two, at least. You rub them together. Your gut is still churning, nerves thrumming. Not just aftershocks—actual anxiety. “If I don’t—” He’ll hate you if you don’t get him off with your mouth like he just did for you, he’s going to hold it against you and mock you with it constantly but you don’t think you’re _ready_ to do something like that because it’s _sex_ and you’re still _freaking out_ that the two of you just did a thing that has sex in the name of the act. “I—Karkat—”

Once his hands are clean, he climbs into your lap; his shuffle closer to you does you the dignity of pushing your pants back up your thighs. His weight settles comfortable on your legs, and then he goes to kiss you with that amazing mouth of his, made even better with what it’s just been doing. Ha-yeah, he’s hard, really hard, lump in his jeans settling solid against the line of your groin. “Shut up,” he tells you. “No, shh, like, _really_ shut up—”

“I didn’t thay anything!”

“I can hear you thinking,” he threatens you. You clack your mouth shut so quickly your throat clicks. “I was—I was just teasing, but seriously, I have a boner and now I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Uh,” trying to think is _hard_ when Karkat’s tongue is outlining a tendon on your neck, “I—I could—show me,” you stutter out, and you paw awkwardly at his shirt but still manage to make your hands go vaguely southward.

Karkat’s hands meet yours at the waistband of his jeans. The black denim has a smeared wet patch you can only discern by feel. And then, hey, fly open, and Karkat goes commando because he’s obviously trying to kill you by revving up your libido to terrifyingly high power levels. Now every single time you daydream about doing him in new inventive ways that give middle fingers to the laws of physics, you’re going to remember that there’s only one layer of cloth between you and his cock.

It’s a pretty dick, you’ll give him that. No _dick turtleneck_ , at least. It feels good when you cup it in your hand, heel against the head, index and middle not quite reaching the base—feels even better when it pulses in your grip, because now you know, _you know_ he’s feeling it. “Are you feeling it now, Mister Krabs?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself in the face with the rusty end of a postholer,” Karkat wheezes through a laugh, mock-punching you in the chest. He also thrusts into your hand, so. There’s that.

A slow squeeze-thrust and Karkat’s hands close around your shoulders. You nudge your nose against the corner of his jaw and he bares his throat to you. He’s so adorable in his eagerness, this little shouty exclamation point of an asshole turning to putty in your hands. You never want anyone else to see him like this ever again. “G—good,” you fudge over, you’re going to remember to censor yourself in front of him one of these days, “you’re good, that’s good—”

Under your tongue you can feel his pulse quicken, his breath coming harsh and backwards. Faster, more insistent, like you’re trying to rub it out of him, and he lasts maybe four whole strokes before he twitches and splatters all the way up your wrist. The whole time he’s making that same pornographic breathy moaning noise, the kind you can’t teach or even fake. His chest keeps heaving even after he’s done, and he gives a magnificent full-body shudder that goes up from his toes all the way to the top of his head.

You wipe his cum on his jeans. He snorts at you. You close your arms around him instead. He’s perfectly sized for you; if he slouches and you have proper posture for once in your life, he fits under your chin, only just, always so.

Eventually his thighs lose their tension. His knees stop digging into your hips that forcefully. “Sollux,” he says, his voice still warm even with the fire quenched from it.

“Don’t,” you tell him.

“Love you,” he says to spite you.

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re a fuckmongrel.” Somehow, his tone is just as affectionate.

“Shitweasel,” you barb him right back.

You can feel him smirk. “ _Doge._ ”

You dump Karkat out of your lap, pull your pants up, and retreat to the bathroom to hide the fact that you’re laughing just as hard as he is.


End file.
